


Philosophy of afterlife

by KojisApple



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Humor, Authorial Narrator (partly), BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Experienced Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier & Dijkstra Love/Hate on friendly terms, Little shit Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Nobility, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plotting and scheming, Politics, Rating May Change, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Smart Jaskier | Dandelion, Sort of Worldbuilding, Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator, heavier on humor I guess, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KojisApple/pseuds/KojisApple
Summary: After death, what comes next? Eternal life in the afterworld? Purgatory? Reincarnation? Oh, hohohohaha — no. The business policy of afterlife is as follows: non-existent. Their only philosophy: some problems resolve themselves, life resolves the rest. What shouldn't happen, but does happen: administrative errors. And here, in life... there is nobody to deal with administrative errors.— Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, barely ten, looks like twelve, actually in his late sixties.Or: Julian died with a smile on his face, a stilletto between the ribs and a couple of regrets (the irony wasn't lost on him here), before getting reborn with all memoies of his previous life intact and the determination to never regret again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Character(s), Sigismund Dijkstra & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 105





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> This little piece of work is inspired by [Poprocks' post](https://poprocksromance.tumblr.com/post/612256172806946816/i-adore-the-idea-that-jaskier-very-deliberately) on Tumblr.
> 
> Admittedly, I took the _Give me a Jaskier who is older and smarter than his 18 year old self_ part somehow literally.
> 
> To be considered: English isn’t the author’s first language. Furthermore, the author has an acquired taste of humour, sleep deprivation and another story (Jaskier!Witcher, two chapters offline) running in the background.
> 
> Have fun.

Coming to think about it, most people tended to mediate more on _what-happened-after_ as they got older, and since he was in his late fifties, he qualified in that regard. Several of his last poems and at least one ballad (seemed like he wouldn’t be able to finish it) approached that question.

“You look like someone is dying”, he said.

There was faith. Of course there was faith. (And a veritable deluge of _eternal life after death is real _books).) But faith was, by its very definition, belief without proof.__

“Gods”, he muttered flatly under his breath, ironically not believing in any gods at all. “Gods, what is happening? Is this the end of the world? Sigismund Dijkstra actually cares about someone other than himself.”

When one boiled it down, there were only two choices; either there was something, or there was nothing. If it was the latter, case closed. If it was the former, there a tons of possibilities with eternal afterlife, purgatory and reincarnation being the most popular.

“I know you think of yourself as funny, but see me smiling? Get your shit together, Pankratz.”

His big-boned fellow — who, besides sharing his preference for richly ornamented, brightly coloured garb, was nearly as tall as a door frame — towered over him like the unsavoury meat mountain that bastard was. Sighing, Dijkstra got down on his good leg and pushed his shacking hands away to take a look at the gaping stab wound between his ribs, rough bugger.

“Stop fidgeting, you retarded—”

Dijkstra cursed as flowerily as most of his poems were.

“That bad?” He wanted to laugh, but his punctured lungs would thank him, if he not.

“...want me to be honest? You’re not going to make it.”

He had assumed as much as he could feel how life slowly trickled out of him. In the truest sense of the word; he was sitting against his desk, unable to move a muscle, and waited for his hectic-beating heart to push the last bit of consciousness out of his body. He was dying, succumbing to the severity of his injuries — he was delighted to find that he didn’t feel the pain.

“You have to admit, it was kind of fun. Did you see his face? That expression was...it was divine.”

He chuckled and ended up coughing out a mouthful of blood, his head hitting the desk with a thump.

“Didn’t think that poor fool would stab me”, he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Rather rude, isn’t it?”

“That’s why I have done the thinking”, Dijkstra retorted, which, in fact, was not true. They both had done their fair share of thinking, it was just that he hadn’t been the one who’d gotten paid for it. 

“How…how much are they giving for my head nowadays, anyway?”

Dijkstra huffed. “Last time I looked, one thousand four hundred crowns.”

He whistled the scale up and down; it should be worrying from several points of view, that Dijkstra _had_ looked at all, but it was his job to look and that hefty amount really was flattering.

“Should have stabbed you myself”, the tactless bastard added.

“Well, I’m quite honored you considered me alive more worth than dead, dear, but I'm sure you have one way or another to claim my decease as your merit. How about the jealousy-act? People love the jealousy-act.”

Perhaps, he was right and one would get what they always believed they would get — like he had written in his poem, a rather famous one.

“Pankratz, I like you. I really am. But I don’t like you enough to go through this fucking pageant.”

What he would really like — he thought — was a chance to go through it all again, as a kind of immersive theatre, so he could relish the good times. Of course, he would also have to rue the bad ones (he had made his share, by gods, he had), but who wouldn’t like to reexperience that first good kiss, that first goblet of finest wine, or the nervous, sweet blur of falling in love the first time?

“Consider it my final favour, Dijkstra. Moreover, get my latest work printed. And the biography. Don’t forget the biography. Did you know that biographies of the dead always outsell those of the living?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, because there was no way Dijkstra wouldn’t know.

“It has been a pleasure to work with you, my friend.” He felt blood pouring out from corner of his mouth, running down his chin and drenching his collar, as he smiled.

“Give my best regards to your wife.”

Dijkstra’s lips were moving, but he didn't understand what he was saying through the rumbling rush of blood in his ears. A white hole appeared in the centre of his vision and spread, erasing Dijkstra’s somewhat sleepy, wrinkled face, erasing the world he had lived in.

And there he was, assuming all the time that wild talk about _the white light_ was utter nonsense.

•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰• 

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Count de Lettenhove, died on the floor of his study, lying in a puddle of his own blood. It was an unexpected death; he didn’t die alone, though, without any comfort or affection, how he had always feared he would.

•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•

Julian expected no welcoming committee. Actually, what he expected was for the light to fade into blackness, but well, that didn’t happen. When the shining dimed, he wasn’t in some promised afterworld. He was in the corridor of what seemed to be the construction of a half-finished church that ended five or six steps down at a door with a placard on it reading _There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self_. He was stunned to realize that the words weren’t written in common speech or in any other of the four languages he was fluent in.

Julian stood where he was, inventorying himself. He was wearing the doublet he had died in (at least he assumed he had died), but there was no sign of blood. He felt his side; the stab wound was gone. Quite nice. He took a deep breath and exhaled without coughing and ruining his doublet. Even nicer.

He walked a little way down the corridor. On his right was a series of stained glass windows which illuminated the corridor. On his left were further placards, also written in that foreign language he had never learned, but understood perfectly well: _Death must be beautiful_ and above _Tell me, father, which to ask forgiveness for; what I am or what I’m not? Tell me, father, which should I regret; what I became or what I didn’t?_ accompanied by a drawing of praying hands. 

What made him chuckle softly was: _Staying alive and living are two different things_.

Where — exactly — was he?

His euphoria at being whole again was fading, replaced by a sense of dislocation and well, truth be told, unease. Being able to read the placards didn’t make any sense and the fact that this phrases (apart from _Death must be beautiful_ ) expressed exactly what he felt more often than not, offered no comfort.

He looked behind him and saw stairs leading up, but the way was blocked by stones and timber. That left only the door. Without any further hesitation — what could he possibly fear, he was already dead — Julian walked down there and knocked.

“It’s open.”

Julian stepped in. Besides a cluttered desk stood a man in a washed-out doublet and high-waisted pants. His hair was plastered against his skull, gathered into a ponytail deep in his neck and secured by a red ribbon. He wore spectacles.

To Julian’s right was a door. To his left another. One part of the room was filled with building materials, the other with bookshelves, and there was a small window in the wall behind the man.

“Julien Alfons Pankratz, Duke de Lettenhove?” The man went behind the desk and sat down. There was no offer to shake hands or acknowledgement of his (fake) peerage, which, honestly, he really didn’t mind.

“Julian Alfred and Count de Lettenhove.”

“Right. I’m Luis Beladanar. It's been a long time since they sent me a first-timer, always thought they run out”, Beladanar said and lifted a piece of paper to look on the one beneath. “Fairly young the world you are from, Lord Lettenhove. No wonder there are still first-timers. Is that how you say it in your world? Lord Lettenhoven? Or the whole Count-de-Lettenhove-thing? Or is a simple _my lord_ enough?”

“I prefer Pankratz”, he replied, Beladanar’s previous words running through his head. A first time implied a second time.

“So…reincarnation? That’s the big secret?”

Luis Beladanar sighed. “People always ask that and I always give the same bloody answer: no, not really.”

Julian hummed. “What about gods?”

“As far as I know, there aren’t any.”

“Believers truly must get disappointed, the poor souls.”

“Indeed. There are some who even throw a fit.”

“Can’t blame them”, he said, then remembering. “Who’s _they_?”

“No clue. All communications come via letter.” Beladanar tapped the envelope. “Had to improve my handwriting for it.”

Julian looked around, picked up the papers on the chair opposite of Beladanar and glanced at the man behind the desk, left eyebrow raised.

“Apologies. I have a quite a bunch of visitors and paperwork accordingly. Just put them on the floor, that’ll do it for now, thank you. I meant to hold some kind of order, but…that’s really a secretarial sort of work and they have never provided me with one…efficiency doesn’t seem to be part of the business policy here”, Beladanar said and yawned.

Nonchalantly, Julian sat down and crossed his legs, straightening his back.

“If it isn’t reincarnation…well, what is it then? Why we are here?”

Looking past Beladanar at a marble plaque with the inscription _Nobility is gone: there is only peerage_ , he added: “And what’s the matter with these phrases?”

Beladanar gave the plaque a quick glance.

“Everyone sees something different”, he said. “It is supposed to help visitors to make _the right choice_.”

He shrugged. “Whatever they mean by that. And why we’re here—”

Beladanar leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. A few moments of silence passed and he shacked his head, chuckling — not in an amused way.

“You don’t know how wearisome someone get, if you met them for the fifth and sixth time. I’m here, because I made some choices which led to people dying and, as luck would have it, they had an job opining when I kicked the bucket. This” — Beladanar spread his arms — “…is my afterlife. Here’s no bedroom, because I don’t sleep. I no longer have to sleep. Here’s no bathroom, because I don’t need to take a shit. All I do is sitting around and wait for the same visitors to ask the same questions, over and over again.”

“Doesn't sound like much fun.”

“Believe me, Pankratz, it isn’t. As for you, you’ll use one of those doors and most likely start to parade in and out, like the others do. “

Beladanar looked down at his papers.

“No wife, one or two bastards and enough broken hearts to pave the ground under you. Aren’t you nobles keen on having a heir, are you? Feels like there’s indeed a reason for you to prefer Pankratz, _my lord_.”

“An old friend once told me: If you love your children, save them from the world that is waiting for them.”

“Quite wise, that friend. What happened to him?”

“He married and got twins.”

“The irony of life.” Beladanar bent forward. “You see, Pankratz, the only question I have is how long I’ll be staying. I liked to think I go mad if I can’t move on, but I can do that anymore than eating or pissing.”

“I guess, that’s what they call purgatory, dear. How many died?”

“Sixty-six. I was still an apprentice as my master was commissioned to build St. Mary. I wanted to save construction material, because the funds were nearly exhausted. My assessments were…incorrect. Three after St. Mary’s completion the feud between Richard III, Landgrave of Turingia and Archbishop Frankus of Ainz intensified to the point that the emperor, Henrold VI at that time, was forced to intervene while he was traveling through the region during a military campaign against how-know-which-country, there were so many. Good old Henrold decided to call a diet in St. Mary. Nobles from across the Empire were invited to the meeting. Just as the assembly was about to begin, the wooden floor of the provost of St. Mary, on which the nobles were sitting, broke under the stress and the unlucky people fell through the first floor down into the latrine in the cellar. The people that didn’t lose their lives from the impact or the debris falling on them, drowned. Dozens of nobles drowned in shit — that must've been a sight to behold.”

Beladanar leaned back again and Julian couldn’t help but wonder if that man had some really bad experiences with nobles.

“I keep asking myself how many men and women are sitting around like this. There are women. I’m sure there _are_ women”, he said with great emphasis. “It’s a shitty job.”

 _Shitty job, indeed_.

“Maybe you’ll get out of here faster if you start to regret, Beladanar. Sixty-six people losing their lives in such a dishonourable manner…should be a weight upon the shoulders.”

Beladanar hammered his desk. “Nonsense. How should I know that the emperor would stuff St. Mary with over hundred nobles?” He picked up one paper and shook it at Julian. “Pot calling the kettle black! Fraud, backstabbing, manipulation! Sabotage! Affairs with married women! How many people lost their positions, their jobs, their properties or even got jailed thanks to your plotting? How many of them were driven to suicide? Has it ever occurred to you, in that pretty, noble head of yours, that fucking up people isn’t always the best of solutions?”

Naturally, it had. But all that…deception — it had been (well…most times) the best of chocies. He certainly had thought about _the better way_ , but every time he had played in his mind he or people related to him — innocent people — were the ones getting fucked. Or backstabbed. Or manipulated. Or sabotaged. After all, _the upper class_ was a dog-eat-dog world and there was never not enough dog to go around; so if he was to be honest, he really did prefer to live and henceforth, he had to do the fucking.

He was tempted to say there was a difference between fucking up people who wanted to fuck up you first and indirectly drowning people in shit. Literally. But why rubbing salt in the wound? Besides, it would probably sound self-righteous.

“How about we drop the matter, friend? I believe there is still the one or other information you have and I need, so why not give it to me and I’ll get out of your sight?”

“ _I_ wasn’t the one steal from the funds”, Beladanar hissed. “You got orders and had to deal with the rest yourself. What else was I supposed to do? Somehow magically summon timber?”

Perhaps, purgatory was somewhat harsh on the man.

“Beladanar?”

“Fine, all right.” Beladanar made a lip-flapping sound, not quite a raspberry. “You see the right door? Leave through it and you get to live your life over again. Take the left and you wipe out of existence. Like forever.”

Julian said nothing to this. Sounded rather like reincarnation, too good to be true. Besides…he had manged a court for decades, and he smelled ruses and mischief hundreds of steps upwind.

“What’s the catch, Beladanar?”

The man was smiling and the smile wasn’t a bit pleasant.

“How observant of you, Pankratz. Usually, visitors get all their hopes up. I am sure there are decision you regret, _my lord_.” Beladanar point at the paper. “The thing with girl under the musician’s podium, for example.”

“I was a kid.”

“Her father didn’t seemed to care about that as he beat the hell out of her. In public.”

 _No_ , Julian was tempted to say. _But at least I drowned nobody in shit_. _Indirectly_.

He remembered the father. A drunkard, who regularly had taken out his frustration and rage on his wife. He had him locked up, when he had heard about it, but...that hadn’t granted any satisfaction and hadn’t brought back the girl’s eye.

“Beladanar, the catch.”

“Right, right, the catch. Given the chance, you would change things, wouldn’t you? Of course you would, who wouldn’t? Sorry to disappoint you, but there are no second chances.”

Beladanar didn’t looked sorry.

“The catch — you’ll remember nothing. If you leave through the right door, you’ll live your live over, get stabbed, die, come back. And we’ll have the same discussion a second time. And then, a third, fourth and fifth”, Beladanar said. “My advice would be to use the other door and be done with it.”

“I’ll remember nothing at all?”

“Who knows. Some visitors have a sense of déjà vu, a sense that they have lived it all before. Which, of course, they have. But that passes.”

Julian rubbed his eyes with his fingers and huffed out a laugh.

“Seriously”, he said, “…what is this all about? If there is no possibility of improvement? Why are we even have this talk, instead of simply…blink out right away? Why making things complicated?”

“I could offer you to write a letter and ask.” Beladanar folded his hands on his desk. “But I don’t want to. You wouldn’t get an answer out of them anyway. Let’s assume afterlife has no long-term goals and consider the case closed. So please, go ahead and pick a door.”

No memories, no changes. Was Beladanar telling the truth? Yes. Well, whatever he considered the truth.

 _It is supposed to help visitors to make the right choice_ , Beladanar had said.

 _There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self,_ the placard on the door had said.

_Staying alive and living are two different things._

“Did someone ever choose the left door?”

“Not here with me, which’s truly a shame. They keep coming back, keep asking the same questions, keep getting up their hope, before I crush it. Which makes this all a bit more bearable. So…what'll it be, Pankratz?”

 _I have nothing to lose_ , he thought as he opened the door that led back into life. _It couldn't hurt to try out._

“See you later, Beladanar.”

“Funny.”

White light enveloped him.

•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•

The healer, who had his eye on Countess de Lettenhove for years (something the Count and his own wife had to never know), bent forward and came up holding a naked baby by the heels. He gave it a sharp smack and the squealing began.

“A healthy baby boy”, he said. “Congratulations, my lady.”

The Countess, oblivious to the healer’s advances, took her child and kissed his damp cheeks. They would name him Julian. Julian Alfred, Alfred after her husband’s grandfather. In her arms she held not just a new life, not just a heir to the county, but a future, her little son.

Nothing, she thought, could be more beautiful.

Lying quite contently in his mother’s embrace, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Alfred after his great-grandfather, Viscount de Lettenhove, thought: _Lecherous fucker. What a rude way to handle babies._


	2. Curtain and Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like I messed up the thing with the peerage. According to the practice in UK I did. But it's the UK, not the Continent, so...
> 
> Couldn’t decide whether to write that chapter from Julian’s perspective or the perspective of the secondary character’s — so I tried both. There is one winner, but…phew, it was a close call.
> 
> Enjoy.

After finding that his wife had given birth to a gimp, Baron de Arenstett passed away unexpectedly. It was rumoured the baron died of a stroke after seeing the disfigured face of his son; the staff at the Von Lareek estate would only give a dry smile at that.

Desdemon von Lareek, younger brother of the departed baron by little more than three heartbeats, inherited the barony and his brother’s title by auguring that the crippled child — the rightful heir to the Arenstett barony — wouldn’t be able to measure up to the demands and responsibilities of the heredity. Strictly turning down the humble request of the widowed Lady de Arenstett to name her new-born after her late husband’s father as the family tradition had it, calling it a disgrace to their ancestors, he had the boy named Marvett — a crude and vulgar combination of _marw_ and _wedd_.

Few years later, Lady de Arenstett followed her husband, succumbing to illness and leaving her son behind, who — contrary to all expectations — had survived infancy. Despite severe disabilities, physical and mental as everyone assumed, Marvett (his mother called him Nerez, a second name Lady de Arenstett had insisted on) was blessed with godly health, much to the displeasure of Desdemon von Lareek, newly minted Baron de Arenstett, who still waited for his wife to bear him a heir.

•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•

Mother’s ash hasn’t fully cooled down yet and he’s already planning to get rid of me, Nerez thought disgruntledly, unable to put it into words and shout it in his uncle’s face. He had anticipated something like this, of course he had, and he didn’t even mind to be left in the care of his first cousin once removed — _a gentle nature, mother said_ — there were worse fates, his scumbag of a uncle, that devious, spineless snake, was capable of worse, he knew it, but that increasing disrespect for his mother–

He huffed, what sounded like someone got strangled. At least that was how he imagined it sounded like when he strangled his uncle in his dreams.

The gossiping servants flinched and looked at him over their shoulders as if he would sudden leap at them any moment, before they lowered their heads — nothing but a habit — and walked away in a hurry.

“Young lord?”, Emila asked, who was seemly oblivious to anything unrelated to her sewing.

She looked up.

“Are you needing me to turn the page?”

His handmaid — his mother’s handmaid — put her needlework aside, stood up and approached his _study_ — an armchair, designed to meet most of his needs.

Emila turned the page he stopped reading all over again after the fifth time and tried to thank her with a little nod, only to have his chin slumped against his chest awkwardly.

She adjusted his head and he didn’t try to thank her again. He watched the handmaid returning to her work. Emila never believed his mother; Mother had been the only one to ever attribute intelligence to him. From the very beginning, Mother had treated him like a human being — because she had hoped, hoped long and desperately so. Lastly, she had realized, that her hopes hadn’t been in vain.

Emila merely turned the page to honour his mother’s memory — and he didn’t mind, couldn’t blame her.

He softly knocked on the armrest.

Emila stood up and turned the page.

He knocked.

She turned the page.

He knocked.

She turned the page and returned to her work.

He knocked.

She ignored it.

He knocked again.

Emila sighed and looked up. “One of these day, huh?”

•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•

Florence Harriet Elise Pankratz, Countess de Lettenhove, was indeed, like his mother had said, a soft-hearted woman...on the outside, at least. Her husband, the Count, Lord Lettenhove, on the other hand, however, was her opposite: cold and calculating appearance aside, he had a soft core. Or something of that nature.

As for their son — Nerez had arrived at Lettenhove shortly before the child’s second birthday — he was...strange, for the lack of better words.

Yes, lively, vibrant and advantageous as a child his age — in his humble opinion — should be...but only until no one was looking.

Nerez had accustomed himself to be looked down upon long ago; in a certain way, he even embraced it. Depending on physical support, being underestimated was his only competitive advantage — his disability was the only reason he still was alive. And the fact that Lord Arenstett eventually got himself a heir. Congratulations.

Being underestimated meant he knew more than anyone would ever suspect, noticed more than anyone would ever realize and, admittedly, thought more than he would ever express. More than he would ever be able to express.

People spoke to him like they would to a house pet, a cat or dog — with soft, high-pitched voices, emphasizing each syllable and while speaking like that, their guard slipped. And they started to talk. Eagerly and unrestrained.

The young viscount struck him as odd; it seemed like the child...it seemed like that boy took advantage of a facade as well.

There hadn't been many occasions for Nerez to observe him, but three long years had accumulated a sufficient amount of accidental encounters to make a sure judgment.

First of all, Lady Lettenhove’s son could read. He had been able to with barley more than three years. And Nerez was sure, nobody had taught the boy.

At that point, he would have happily declared the boy as extraordinary (the rumours that the young lord had quietly grumbled on about worldly affairs in his cradle were likely true) and closed the matter. But the child had deliberately hid his abilities. A child’s first priority was to please their parents. Or whoever took care of them. They would only hid and conceal their doing if they knew that was going to upset their parents. They didn’t hid their achievements. They boasted and bragged. They didn’t sneak into the family library to read a book.

If the child was able to read, he could write, disregarding fine motor skills. The evidence Emila had found tucked into _Sir Edmund Fergus’ collection of epic poetry_ ; his handmaid — the woman still stood by his side, which was impressive, to say at least — had considered it part of the ream; truth be told, Emila was persistent and hard-working, but dense like a block of wood.

Said evidence was a little masterpiece; at the tender age of four, the child was a master of epic poetry. Not bad at all. And for the love of–

He thanked whatever god who had prevented Emila from sewing the poem into the book.

So much for the obvious.

No one seemed to noticed the way the boy carried himself, the distinct air of confidence around him that wasn't attributed to childish invincibility or cluelessness.

No one seemed to noticed the duplicity of the boy’s laughs and smiles; usually forced, usually faked, the young lord seemed to have mastered his fake smile right down to the wrinkles around his eyes; he smiled like he was at ease, but the ease didn’t reflect in that big eyes.

No one seemed to noticed the way that mask cracked and created space for something that suspiciously reminded of melancholy; firstly, Nerez even believed he had imagined it, because what had a healthy, five-year old boy to be melancholic about?

No one, except for the Countess maybe (even the best acting in the whole wide world couldn't outrank maternal instincts paired with a razor-sharp mind), seemed to notice any oddities in their young lords behaviour.

His judgement: this boy who read books upside down to avoid the risk of being found out accidentally, was deliberately hidding his worth, he deliberately wanted to be underestimated.

But why? He was the son of Count de Lettenhove, recognized as his heir. Whom he had to fear?

“Is that your best offer, Holker?”

The Count sounded displeased. But he always sounded displeased; his voice reminded Nerez of a many-limbed insect that was picking through the undergrowth, quiet but rasping in a way that could unsettle.

“My lord, you need to go easy on this humble servant”, Holker replied, taking a slip of the piss-brown liquid in his glass. “You must know, my lord, the winters are harsh and merciless on us travelling merchants. It surely is a blessing to own a remarkable estate like your own, my lord.”

The Count hummed, swinging his own glass. The silence grew, occasionally broken by the rustling of paper that came from the direction where Lord Lettenhove’s son was _playing_. As luck would have it, the boy, escaping his nursemaid, turned up to _play_ _reading_ — how the child called it, when asked what he was doing here — every time the Count choose to show off the family’s indeed notable book collection and moved meetings with his business partners to the library; as the boy had never disturbed the conversations, the Count didn’t appear to mind him being around. 

“I promise you, my lord, my mares are the healthiest and finest animals gold can buy”, the horse trader finally said, awkwardly. “I have never left a customers unsatisfied, my lord.”

“Your reputation precedes you.” The Count set his glass down. “But your promise won’t bring the mare back to life if she dies as well.”

The Count decided to take a walk. Holker literally jumped out of his seat, in order not to offend the Count by remaining seated.

The child watched them leaving, his gaze on the merchant’s back who followed the Count like a lovesick–

“Slimy ass-kisser”, the boy muttered, the voice somewhat grating, but his pronunciation clear and articulate.

Nerez couldn’t help but chuckle. It sounded like somebody was choking.

The young lord glanced back at him.

Their eyes met, what he realized, was for the first time.

Yes, the boy had smiled at him before, he polity greeted and as friendly said goodbye when they crossed paths, but the child had never looked at him, truly looked at him.

There was no disgust or subliminal horror in that wide eyes — the brightest and bluest Nerez had ever seen — (he wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been) only honest astonishment that turned into–

“Shit”, the boy said and well, _ass-kisser_ , _shit_ — wasn’t that quite the language for a five-year-old?

“ _Shit_ ”, the young lord repeated with emphasis and the boyish, puerile expression on his face fell. “You– I– Shit, Melitele forgive me…well, she doesn’t exist, but– _Fucking gods_. I can’t believe…shit, I can’t believe that— _never_. I’m so sorry. Dear, I’m sorry, I’m so _terribly_ sorry. Melitele help me…don’t–don’t move, stay here, I’ll be right back!”

Nerez was genuinely and utterly baffled as he watched the boy rushed off, almost dumping into an approaching housemaid.

“Dear goodness! Young lord–?!”

The boy apologised while passing the startled woman and disappeared behind the next corner.

Looking after the young lord, Nerez wondered where the boy expected him to go.

The young lord returned with a sheet of paper and a charcoal.

“You can wiggle your fingers, right?”, the boy said, plopped down in Emila’s empty seat beside him — the handmaid had excused herself, even before the Lord’s meeting with the horse trader had started, for a reason she hadn't told him — and put the paper on the table between them.

The sheet wasn’t empty; in elegantly curved handwriting the modern alphabet had been written down on it.

“My first idea was to let you point at the letters, but I guessed it may be too cumbersome for you. Besides, it's time-consuming and without the alphabet you still wouldn't be able to communicate. Then your knocking came to my mind, you know, one knock the first letter, two knocks the second, and so on, but then again, that's cumbersome and time-consuming, too”, the boy rambled, excitedly scribbling down a series of lines and dots behind the letters and–

The boy stopped. He lifted his head, staring Nerez straight into the eyes.

“ _Gods_ ”, the child — no, whoever was sitting next to him right now was everything but a mere child — said. “How dull and tedious– It must have been terribly awful. Your turn sixteen this winter, right? By Melitele, all those years without being able to– I even can’t imagine how you stay fucking sane while enduring all this day in and day out. Fine, yes, you’ve never known anything else, but nonetheless– Shit. I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to be pitied. Nobody liked to be pitied. Well, at least, I don’t like to be pitied.”

Nerez didn’t see pity. What he saw was regret, regret and wisdom, but he saw no pity.

“Sorry, that…that was insensitive of me. Forget I said anything.”

The boy exhaled slowly and controlled. “Back to the matter at hand. I almost finish. I know, there is still room for improvement — I have to admit, the idea was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing — but…I believe this will do the trick.”

The young lord turned the paper around. “I guessed that by using different kinds of knocks, the combination possibilities would reduce the overall effort of knocking a letter. Naturally, you can’t actually distinguish knocks, but you can vary the length of the breaks between them. So short pauses between knocks signal a dot and longer pauses a line. Like that.”

The boy knocked the a letter. _Dot-line-dot_.

“Well, telling letters apart may get a bit of a problem, though”, he added sheepishly. “Making even longer pauses possibly would work. So, well…what do you think?”

Nerez’ eyes moved from the boy to the sheet of paper, cluttered with black dots and lines, then back to the boy. He made a fist and slowly started to knock.

In the deathly silence of the library, his weak taps against the wood of his armrests were like claps of thunder to his ears.

_N-o-t. B-a-d. A-t. A-l-l._

He realized that he was crying. The tears streamed down his cheeks to the chin that his collar became damp. As he hadn't shed tear for his mother, he believed he couldn't do that anymore than he could talk or leave his wheelchair on his own.

He sobbed and it sounded like someone was suffocating. But he didn't mind, didn't care, because he _was_ suffocating.

_Someone else will come, my darling. Endure, stay strong, don't break apart from the small things. One day, someone will come and see you, I promise._

He was a dead in a world of living, he didn't mind, didn't care, a ghost chained by a helpless body, but he minded, he cared, and he had–and he had always wanted–

The boy smiled. Truly and sincerely smiled, his lips so red it appeared like he was wearing his mother’s lipstick.

_I. A-m. G-l-a-d. Y-o-u. L-i-k-e. I-t._

•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•

Julian began to visit him every day, without exception. Most times at the library, sometimes at his small but comfortable chamber.

The boy _demanded_ to see him, all the spoiled, hard-to-please young lord he ought to be.

The Countess didn’t object, thus the Count didn’t object as well. The nursemaid almost thanked them on her knees for the momentary reprieve from Julian’s antics.

 _You-said-it-yourself: there-aren’t-any_.

“As far as I know — my source was doubtful at best. That doesn’t mean, I rule out the existence of a mighty being that tower above us all and occasionally split on the heads of some unfortunate chosen ones”, Julian said. “But–“

The boy broke off and looked past him. Nerez perked up. Footsteps approached the library, picking up pace, then becoming quieter.

“…the belief that you will get into whatever god’s _afterworld_ is– _”_

_Ut-ter-bull-shit._

_Knocking-it-doesn’t-make-it-better_.

“It was my _speaking_ you complained about”, Julian pointed out and smirked. “But back to topic: are you’re implying that I’m prejudiced? Yes, I maybe don’t believe in gods, but that I agree with Suzan’s hypothesis has nothing to do with my view on them.”

 _I-didn’t-want-to-exclude-the-possibility. I-wouldn’t-put-it-past-you_.

“I am offended, Nerez. Deeply offended.” The boy pouted at him.

 _There-is-no-evidence-that-Miguelin-was-irreligious_.

“Well, there’s no evidence to contradict it, either. Besides, if you wanted to put a hidden message into a painting that sate _the gods bestowed humanity with the gift of the intellect_ , wouldn’t you rather let the gods hand over something that resembled a brain, instead to paint them _into_ the brain? In your brain is in your mind, and was on your mind? Thoughts, desires and hopes.”

Julian had a point there. _If-you’re-right-it’s-going-to-ruin-Branen’s-day_. 

“He should have expected it”, the boy laughed. “Among scholars and philosophers, debating about dead artists’ painting is one of their favourite pastimes.”

He didn’t ask Julian how he would know about the favourite pastimes of scholars and philosophers. Julian looked like a little child, but his behaviour wasn’t that of a little child’s. He didn’t ask Julian why he hid his worth. He didn’t ask Julian about the mystery behind his vast knowledge. He didn’t ask Julian what he had been terribly sorry for. He didn’t ask as a matter of principle.

“There’s that look in your eyes again”, the boy teased. “As if confronted with a riddle you can’t solve.” 

I am, he thought. And the riddle is you.

Julian straitened up. _It’s-the-eyes-isn’t-it?_

 _Pardon-me_?

_The-eyes. It’s-the-eyes-that-be-tray-you-isn’t it?_

_I-am-not-following._

_You-know-I-am-not-a-five-year-old-right?_

The statement took him off guard; not because of its sheer absurdity, but the startling accuracy with which it described the boy. 

_I-guess-this-is-one-way-of-putting-it_.

Julian smiled. _Were-it-the-eyes?_

No, Nerez thought. Of course, there is wisdom in your eyes. And a kind of melancholic nostalgia I can’t grasp, but it’s not only the eyes. It’s the way you walk. The way you roll your eyes at the bootlickers that vie for your father’s favour. The way you pull a grimace when you have to take medicine, not because of its bitter taste but the healer’s brazen advances towards your mother.

 _Among-other-things_.

 _Seems-like-my-acting-isn’t-as-good- as-I-hoped_.

He studied the boy.

 _Julian-I-don’t-understand-why-you-are-bringing-that-up-now_.

“Mother want to send me away, to receive basic education in a temple school.”

Julian ginned. _The-last-time-I-was-in-a-temple-school-literacy-was-beaten-into-me-with-a-cane-can-you-believe-it?_

Nerez couldn’t. The young lord shacked his head and stared off into the distance.

 _I-don’t-want-to-leave-the-estate. I-can't-leave. Not-with-everything-I-know_.

Julian turned back to him, his five-year-old face — all smooth skin and baby fat — looked old.

“I can’t let them die”, the boy whispered. “Nerez, I don't want to lose them again. Yes, yes, the Lettenhove parenting approach leave much to be desired, but they are still–“

Julian cut himself off and sighed.

 _You-and-I-both-know-there-are-things-I-will-never-tell-you. Question-I-will-never-answer. I-can’t. I-can’t-bear-the-consequences-because-there-may-be-some. Maybe-I’m-worrying-for-nothing-and-there-are-no-consequences-at-all. I-can’t-take-that-risk_. _I-need-your-help-and-I-need-you-to-trust-me. This-is-as-honest-as-I-can-ever-get_.

Nerez lift an misshaped eyebrow.

_Don’t-you-think-it’s-a-bit-unethical-to-ask-a-person-who-is-depending-on-you-for-help?_

Julian chuckled and folded his hand. “Ethics and Morality are a slippery and elusive subjects, my friend. Morality is like a bowstring — uniquely stretchable. But if you stretch anything to far, it will tear; under the right circumstances, anyone might do anything. And live to regret it.”

The boy looked out of the window.

“Ethics…ethics are like prayers, noble and righteous, but pointless when you fight a war and can’t afford to lose. Nobody wages a war by rules.”

Nerez followed his stare; the Lettenhove estate had been built in a slight horseshoe shape. The library was one of the rooms between two extending arms, with windows looking out on a charming courtyard. The garden was lush with early summer. Paths wandered and a central fountain splashed, the flowers rioted but in a well-barbered way.

 _So-we-are-at-war_.

Julian hummed.

 _So-we-are_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the unreliable narrator tag; Nerez' upbringing was due to his circumstances quite different from the way childern are normally raised. Back in the early Renaissance period there had been little concern for child between birth and five or six years old; children went fairly unnoticed.
> 
> So, again about the peerage; on Redddit I found this snippet, out of Baptism of Fire:
> 
> “Ah, well.” Dandelion looked around the shack with a slightly vacant stare. “If Countess de Lettenhove could see me like this...”  
> “Who?”  
> “Never mind. Dammit, this moonshine really does loosen the tongue... Geralt, shall I pour you another one? Geralt!”
> 
> Who is "Countess de Lettenhove" Dandelion is talking about? He acts like he let something slip. And his comment is highly similar to a phrase commonly used when a person finds themself in a shameful situation: "If my mother could see me like this..."  
> So, if his mother is a countess, his father would be a count (normally, well in UK, the wife of a count is not called countess, but Lady, unless she got a peerage herself, but as Redanian nobility seems to desire a male heir, I go with "wife of a count is called countess"); namely, Count de Lettenhove. Arccording British peers, it is rare for an eldest son to use a title that would be identical but lower to his father's (in this case Viscount de Lettenhove). But again, it's the UK and not the Continent, so...Jaskier is the heir to a county^^
> 
> What I forgot to mention in the first chapter: Beladanar’s incident is based on by the [Erfurt latrine disaster](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erfurt_latrine_disaster)
> 
> Maybe some of you already noticed it: The painting Nerez and Julian talk about is practically the Continent’s version of Michelangelo’s [The Creation of Adam](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Creation_of_Adam): Miguelin’s Creation of Man.
> 
> And yes, they more or less are knocking morse code.


	3. Sweetness of Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I got little bit carried away with that one. 
> 
> Actually, I originally wanted to spend three or four Chapters on the Childhood Arc, but after finishing this one I somehow have the feeling Julian’s Childhood Arc will take some time...ten Chapters minimum, what do you guys think?

Mother had a saying for nearly every occasion. 

(“And Pankratz remembers them all”, he could hear Dijkstra say, with an accompanying roll of his eyes.) _Collaboration is the essence of life; wind, bees and flowers work together, to spread the pollen_ was one of her favourites — yet, she still had to say it. 

As all of the Countess’ sayings had a true core, even when it was buried deep between the lines more often than not, the wind-bees-and-flowers metaphor (one of the more comprehensible in her vast collection) was no exception: in a healthy body, cells grew, divided, and replaced each other. As new cells formed, the old ones died. When cells divided more than they should or didn’t die when they should, the result was an abnormal mass of tissue, most commonly known to the medics as tumour; tumours could vary in size, from tiny, harmless nodules to large, deathly masses that could appear anywhere on the body. Stomach, lungs, heart — tumours weren’t picky. 

In his previous life, the Count had died of a brain tumour, right on the morning of the day Julian had arrived at their estate after his…memorable stay at a temple school located south-west of Lettenhove. He had missed out his father’s last words because of a coachman with poor orientation skills and a broken wheel. 

_It was for the best, Julian. Your father...your father was already gone weeks...months before._

Truth be told, he hadn’t understood the meaning behind his mother’s words then; fatigue, depression, memory difficulties, personality changes — he had learned about the side-effects of a brain tumour only years later. 

His father, may his soul rest in peace, had coped with a peculiarly thankless case of lacking collaboration, the backstabbing kind, where the tumour (which was created through unnatural means in the first place) started out as a benign bundle of cells, hardly the size of a fingernail, and eventually ended up as a fist-sized bulk that challenged the sufferer’s brain for space because the healer, who was supposed to monitor the tumour’s growth, felt like being greedy. 

_When ill luck begins, it doesn’t come as drizzle, but as rainstorm,_ Mother would say. 

The death sentence had been a _precautionary measure,_ as Father wasn’t too fond of the idea of giving mages political influence (he wasn’t the only one and that for good reason); nobody _would_ have particularly cared (as long as the Count didn’t voice out his concerns), if King Heribert the Quarrelsome _hadn’t_ bestowed his great-grandfather with the title of Count palatine. Alfred Pankratz, who had been one of Heribert’s most loyal supporters in the quarrel against the Chapter, had worn the title with pride, before he had passed away and left it to be inherited by his grandson, Julian’s father. 

Great-grandfather was said to have been a strict and principled; the Count never spoke (and had never spoken) much of the man who had raised him and his brother since their parents had died young, but his father had never been a man of excessive words or advice to begin with. The Count guided others by his example, he believed into the values he set for his people and consciously lived after them himself — at least that was what his mother had always told him as Julian hadn’t had much of a chance to form his own opinion on the Count in his previous life. And, honestly speaking, he still wasn’t sure which values his father treasured, exactly, besides the obvious choices like stone-facedness, self-discipline, and a strange, stiff form of politeness. But, well — _do not judge, or you too will be judged_ , right? 

After King Vizimir’s truce with the mages, the title Heribert, Vizimir’s father, had bestowed onto his family, slowly began to wither on the vine — which didn’t mean that the rights attached to it had been forfeited, though; a count palatine swore allegiance to the king and the king only, yet he had the authority to rule his county independently. 

“The pastries won’t finish backing any sooner, if you stare them down like that.” 

Lettenhove was the size of a duchy, by Redanian standards, mostly all grain field and backwater towns, with occasional spots of woodland in-between, two small coal mines, and one or another silver vein which still needed to be discovered — in short, they weren’t swimming in riches, but weren’t bad off either. 

A pan was placed on top of the oven with unnecessary enthusiasm. 

Not to mention that almost a third of the knights and steeds the Redanian Cavalry could mobilize, was raised and trained in Lettenhove, under the watchful eyes of Countess (her training routine was the very figment of every knight’s nightmare) and the Count (he didn’t think that his father liked horses particularly much, yet he was technically unbeaten in the field of horse breeding), resulting in two-third of the Redanian army being a mixed bunch of knights and steeds from the remaining fiefdoms. To be able to stand against Lettenhove in terms of armed force one would need to unite at least half of the high lords, a lost cause right from the beginning; even someone with modest interest in politics would know that achieving immortality was more likely than uniting a bunch of ignorant geezers — a fact that would be the famous _nasty thorn in the flesh_ in the eyes of people who wanted to overthrow the king of Redania. 

“Hush”, the cook said, a quite gifted woman, small-boned but equipped with a powerful voice and, despite her temper, often sought out for her sophisticated practical knowledge remarkably. “Half a child herself, yet lackin’ any sympathy. They may call ‘im a genius, but don’t ya see the young lord is still a kid? Let ‘im be, lass.” 

Making a convincing genius hadn't been much of a problem, not with over fifty years of life experience at his disposal and the fact that he was indeed a genius — after all, an artistic genius was a genius as well (albeit less noteworthy than an all-round genius the whole household of the Lettenhove estate believed him to be, with Branen at the helm, of course). 

Speaking of: Esmond Eudocia Ganeus Gero Branen, his father’s bookkeeper (Mother’s music instructor) and absolutely never called by his full name due to various reasons, was — although modest and fortunately provided with a soft spot for children — not the kind of professor you wanted to be stuck with in the Oxenfurt Academy. Or any other renowned facility of higher education. It wasn’t like he gave off the impression of a half-ass scholar who knew shit of what he was talking about, in terms of his profession he was truly a master among the masters, but explaining was simply not one of his strong points: Branen’s confusing train of thought could be difficult to follow and his occasional stuttering didn’t really help that matter. 

A few hours after the Countess had _officially_ let him know that he would leave for the temple school within a fortnight, Branen had met him sulking in a corner of the library. Naturally, the bookkeeper had taken the time to ask about his emotional state — which, what Branen couldn’t have known, had been an act to exploit his soft spot; he had fabricated a heart-breaking story about being afraid to leave the estate. Perfectly understandable for a five-and-a-half-year-old, after all, he had never left the estate before and who would tend to Nerez when he was gone and why he had to leave the estate in the first place and he didn’t want that education, if it meant that he had to leave. Why would he need education, anyway? 

Like the scholar he was, Branen had felt obliged to explain to him in detail, why, exactly, education was _essential_. 

_What does essential mean? And why exactly is education “essential”? But why would you want to be more educated than others? Are educated people better than uneducated? No? But why would you want to be educated, then? What do you need knowledge for? For food? You can eat knowledge? What is provide? How does knowledge provide food? But don’t Marie and Serah provide food, then? Why do you need knowledge, when you have Marie and Serah? Marie makes great pastries. Knowledge can never make better pasties than Marie. Can eating pastries make you educated? Why not? Yes, but why? Pastries are tasty. Education should be tasty, too._

At some point Julian wondered, if he had taken his act too far and foolishly missed his underlying objective, but as it had turned out, Esmond Eudocia Ganeus Gero Branen was blessed endless patience and godly serenity. 

Ultimately, Branen had “won” him over with prospect of being able to write down Marie’s newly discovered and comprehensively tried and tested pastry-recipes, so he could build up a collection and share it with other pastry-lovers over the whole Continent via letters…truly, Branen’s sincerity was heart-warming. It would have made him feel quite bad for fooling with the man like that, if the bookkeeper hadn’t enjoyed himself; despite being bad at explaining, Branen seemed to be eager to share his knowledge. 

The humble request, to be taught a letter, had ended in being taught to read (which was what he had aimed for); while letting his skills improve mysteriously fast from sloppy spelling to fluid reading, he had amusedly watched how Branen’s eyebrows climbing farther and farther up his forehead with each passing word, as if to meet with his hairline. At the highest humanly possible point eyebrows could raise, he had stopped and looked at Branen with gleeful anticipation. 

_T–the…the Count_ , the bookkeepers had mumbled under his breath, to no one in particular. _I–I–I need…I need to–to speak w–with the…the Count._

Which Branen had done. 

“What ya doin’ here anyway, girl? Back to work, dinner ain’t goin’ to cook itself!” 

Julian tore his gaze from a point somewhere between the pastries he had stared at as if it held the key to the secrets of the universe and glanced at Serah from the corner of his eyes. He didn’t remember her from his first life — household servants came and went and his childhood memories were generally limited to the most vivid parts. Be that as it may, what he had over the ordinary kid he had been in the first pass, was experience. He already had lived a life, from beginning to end, and that life had taught him to never enter a room without making a casual assessment of everyone inside. A room full of people was a room full of intent. Not just once, the good old first impression had saved him from being be dumped somewhere in the sewers, neck wrung like a chicken. 

It hadn’t saved him from being stabbed, though. Well, it would have, if the civilised, rational part of his mind hadn’t won the argument. Really, he should have known better. 

_The collapse of the senses causes the raise of pride and jealousy, resulting in foolishness and bestiality_ , _dear_. 

Serah wasn’t beautiful in the classical Redanian way, no flowing curls or ivory skin, no piercing eyes of green or blue. She was shorter than average, lean but ample in the right places and in her ordinariness simply stunning. There was something in the way she held herself that had caught his attention; as if unsure of where her limbs should be in order to appear naturally placed. Nevertheless, she gave off a subtle, but noticeable, air of confidence which could be considered as arrogance by common folk, entirely unsuitable for a youthful kitchen maid. 

A thin-lipped smile appeared on her face. 

“Yes, of course, ma’am.” She tilted her head, not in submission but a delusion of it, her hands tightened at her sides, barely perceptible, before she disappeared out of his sight. 

His gaze turned back to the sugar-poppy pasties. 

_Half a child herself, yet lacking any sympathy_ — the cook hit the nail right on the head; Serah never had the opportunity to live out her childhood, he supposed, so the lack of sympathy was quite understandable. That girl was more grown up than most adults he had met in his previous life (which was a lot), aged not by years but by the bundled amount of life experience. 

Maybe physical abusive parents in particularly harsh environment...or bored, children-abducting mages? The list of possibilities that could create a survivor of her...calibre was short enough, but he shouldn’t assume. 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help himself. 

It was obvious that she had struggled; had victory or flight secured her survival? Most people underestimated the advantages a planned escape could have — or the disadvantages. She was skilled, considering the way she handled a kitchen knife, with a familiarity that — obviously — wasn’t developed by chopping vegetables day in, day out. Furthermore, she was proud. No, there had been no victory. She had fled. She was hiding. The fact that she let herself being order around, despite her abilities allowed her far better employment, spoke for itself. 

Hopefully she had made sure that whatever she was hiding from wouldn’t come after her; if the household got involved, it might get ugly. 

Very ugly. 

Marie gave a satisfied snort, entirely unaware that she had touched on a raw nerve. 

•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•

Marvett Nerez von Lareek, his second cousin on maternal side, didn’t eat pasties. 

Not, that he wouldn’t have enjoyed the sweet taste or the way it slowly melted on the tongue — Julian was sure he would — but unluckily, his physical condition restricted his diet mainly on food of liquid consistency. 

_You-are-not-concentrating._

Nerez had grown quite fond of their self-invented communication path that used knuckles as medium instead of vocal cords (for practical purposes, they added some sperate dot-line-combination for digits and numbers); his cousin even managed to slip emotion into his knocking, by varying the force behind it. Coupled with his facial expressions — which were, through the complete paralysis of the right side of his face and the partial of his left, very much restricted on a few selected ones — Nerez was able to resort to a considerable number of ways to express his displeasure. 

_Four. Four-beginner’s-mistake-in-a-row_ , Nerez pounded into the armrest of his wheelchair, _I’m-starting-to-think-you’re-doing-this-on-purpose_. 

It actually sounded _affronted_ , indeed. He briefly wondered, if Nerez was purposely practicing different _intensities_ to get the vibe right, a glance at Nerez’ knuckles were not as revealing as he hoped for. Julian looked down at his notes and found that he couldn’t quite prevent a somewhat pathetic defeat in the following six moves. Seven, if Nerez wanted to embarrass him by forcing him to pointlessly sacrifice his queen to delay the inevitable. 

“Apologies.” He pushed the paper aside and put the quill next to it. “I got lost in thoughts.” 

Nerez gave a harsh, choked off sound — his equivalent to a snort — and lifted his left eyebrow in the best no-kidding-fashion he could muster.

Contrary to the common opinion, chess wasn’t just about plain strategy; it was about imagination. Imagination allowed the player to forecast their opponents moves, identify opportunities and traps alike, five, ten, twenty moves ahead. The winner wasn’t the one with the better strategy — the strategies were always the same, repeating themselves like weather and season. No, in chess, the winner was the one with the more refined imagination; to get the most out of your strategy, you needed a solid grasp of the movement possibilities of each piece. To know your opponent’s next move, and the next and the next, you needed to list their opinions, visualising them before your mind’s eye, and identify the most beneficial one — choosing lesser useful opinions was considered mistake, from both perspectives. 

A poor move was a move based on poor foresight. 

_You spend your whole life stuck in here, in that bloody labyrinth of duties and responsibilities, thinking about how you’ll escape one day and how awesome it’ll be, imagining that future keeps you going, but never do it. All that talking about the future…you just use it to escape your sad, unfortunate present. I’m pitying you, Jules._

Outside of the chessboard, however, a vivid imagination was a quite tiresome matter, though. 

_Don’t-offer-me-a-game-of-chess-if you-plan-to-play-half-heartedly_ , Nerez complained, pointing with his chin to the empty board between them. 

It had been a gift, originally meant as status symbol of some sorts. He had taken it from his father's study, where it had stood around, aesthetic arranged by someone who hadn’t a fucking clue of how to play. It was made from granite, at least half the size again of an average board, and polished to perfection. The darker squares were artistically arranged, each a different but complementary hue of brown, grey or black, while the white ones were everything from snowy to creamy. The thirty-two pieces — now stowed away in a well-padded wooden box — were just as ornate, expertly carved from the same range of stones, taller than usual, proportional to the board. Their bottoms even bore a velvet cushion, replacing the penetrating sound of granite on granite with a soft thud. 

A set like this didn’t deserve to gather dust on a shelf. 

Of course, they had started out playing with the pieces — the granite figurines had held their ground bravely — until, one rainy afternoon, ending up discussing several moves well ahead in the middle of a particularly captivating game. 

It was a welcoming challenge for both of them, not having the luxury of a visual intermediate result and needing to imagine the entire game, along the pieces; Nerez had, naturally, mastered their uncommon approach within a week, while he himself had still to rely on paper and quill to keep track of the game — call his cousin clever, and he had no idea what word to use for everyone else; Nerez’ capacities were beyond everyone’s else in more than just one aspect. He guessed, genius was the term most fitting; a proper one this time, with all the trimmings, unlike himself who was counting on first-life-experiences to hold that image. Yet, Nerez never seemed to openly seek out that kind of elevation, his self-esteem was sound in a way other people’s wasn't — after all, why brag if you were already at the top of the mountain? 

Nerez’ angry _Lost-in-thoughts-again-I-presume?_ brought him back into the present and he was greeted by the full force of his second cousin’s piercing grey eyes. 

“Your efforts in honour, Nerez”, he said after a while, drawing out the syllables a bit, “…but your...method isn’t quite convincing.” 

Nerez glared at him as if he had tried to seduce his mother — but eventually wound up in bed with his father — and he’d found out by catching them _in flagranti_ during his coming-of-age ceremony. 

_And-your-happy-go-lucky-attitude-is_ , Nerez spat out — well, would have, if he could. 

There was nothing Julian could response to that; any form of denial would be disrespectful and a violation of his own words — let alone, instantly detected it as a lie. A suggestion to leave the matter with an excuse along the lines of _it was neither the right time nor the right place_ would be taken with dignity, firstly, and misread, secondly.

For a moment, he was tempted to distract Nerez with a comment about the other boy’s diet (as advanced as their minds were, on the outside, he was still a five-year-old kid — almost six, though — and Nerez, at fifteen, only on the threshold of becoming an adult; _boy_ indeed was a fitting term for both of them), just to see whether it would work. 

That, however, would set the bar pretty low. 

Nerez continued to stare him down in silence, searching. Julian returned that stare, avoiding showing strong emotions on his face; he had always thought of Dijkstra’s stares as impressive, but by Melitele’s _sweet tits_ , they paled in comparison to those displayed by Nerez. 

How the fucking hell had it been possible for his cousin to ever fade into the background during his first lifetime at all? Yes, people didn’t bother to give him a second glance, fuck it, even he himself had taken far too long to figure it out — moreover, he had only figured out by _chance_ — but shouldn’t have, at least, his mother seen Nerez for what he had been in his previous life? 

According to the determined look he was regarded with, Nerez didn’t plan to drop the matter; his cousin never backed down easy, if at all, mostly because he was indeed almost always right, and Nerez didn’t look like he was about to start it now, which was good. Julian liked that particular detail about his cousin — he was going to need more allies he could rely on without having to worry about their performance. 

When he casually folded his hands on the chessboard like he was quite content to sit on the received end of that gaze all day, Nerez couldn’t help the unnerved grumble he appeared to have held back. 

_Despite-your-remarkable-collection-of-skills-it-seems-like-I-shouldn’t-forget-that-I’m-still-dealing-with-a-mere-child_. 

He flashed a grin. “That doesn’t work one me, dear cousin.” 

It had worked on Nerez, though. Twice — before his cousin had figured out that he had been played and Nerez had, actually, tried to talk his way out. It shouldn’t have been as hilarious as it had been. Not hilarious enough to actually laugh, but hilarious in a manner that was some fancy word he couldn’t quite pronounce. Nerez _was_ susceptible to flattery and provocation (especially to those that challenged his abilities); it had been because of this susceptibility (and his gratitude, _of course_ , Nerez had to be a grateful person) that his cousin lastly had ended up committing suicide. 

Sadness and amusement swept over him as he recalled the wording of Nerez’ excuses: 

… _is a finite resource, as you know; once we run out, we give in. Isn’t it obvious that to sustain the necessary amount of concentration and focus on more important processes? We need to put your mental guard down in frequent intervals, redirect the flow of thoughts and awareness, save resources — saving our resources is vital, Julian. We have limited resources, limited material to burn, like…like a torch is limited to a given amount of fuel. Yes, the human mind is a torch. It’s a metaphor, Julian, don’t look at me as if I am a particularly serious case of stupefaction. Do you prefer candles? Fine. Our minds are candles, then. It’s only natural that our mind can’t capture, process and categorize each little piece of information our environment is throwing at us. It’s like trying to light up the entire Continent at night; evidently, the amounts of fuel we’re going to burn would be tremendous, furthermore we don’t need to illuminate the entire Continent to see our path — it would be superfluous and a waste. Needless to say, we don’t want to end up in complete darkness just because of the wasteful use of limited resources. And you of all people should know that our capability to grasp information, which isn’t immediately accessible for us, but rather only on the basis of logical deliberations comprehensible and explainable, is growing and developing through revision and empirical knowledge, which, moreover, confirms that Nolan von Nuallan’s Theory of Soul inadequate and incomplete, as a result—_

After a further explanation about how insufficient Von Nuallan’s evidences to substantiate his theories about the _soul-body-dynamic_ were and how it apparently led to _unsatisfactoriness_ when studying him, Julian had subtly pointed out Nerez’ excuse-making and smooth-but-not-imperceptible-subject-changing. That had resulted in Nerez emphasizing — during the other half of their ongoing match — that he absolutely not had been using excuses to protect himself from _the implications of failure and transgression._

It had been hilarious in a way slipping on a blood-covered floor would be. 

Nerez rolled an eye — the left, as the paralysis affected the eye muscles on the right half of his cousin’s face and prevented him from being able to move the other one. 

_I-assumed-as-much-but-it-was-well-worth-a-try…cousin_. 

Nerez didn’t think much of consanguinity. That sentiment was quite understandable, given that his father was killed by the man’s very own brother for nothing more but a title of nobility; fratricide was a grave offense, but a court could do little, if there wasn’t any indictment _—_ true to the motto _No plaintiff, no judge._

_Julian…you-should-know-that-after-that-unfortunate-affair-with-your-nursemaid —_ the matter with Gesa had been an unfortunate, ha, _affair_ , indeed _— I-have-stopped-believing-anything-that-concern-you-happens-by-coincidence._

Instead of giving in to the internal urge to explain himself, he picked up a pasty _—_ all nicely laid out on a plate beside him _—_ and took a bit. Nerez glared at the sweets as if he personally blamed them for his one-sided diet, the paralyzed eye looked just past the plate, fixating the silver tendrils on the fine ornamented curtains. 

_You-did-not-offer-me-pasties_. 

“You can’t eat them.” 

_Which-be-both-know-and-yet-you-are-offering-me-sweets-on-every-occasion-as-an-act-of-courtesy._

His cousin’s attention flicked back to him.

 _You-asked-me-to-trust-you-Julian_. 

“I did.” 

_I-ask-you-to-do-the-same._

“I _do_ trust you, Nerez.” 

_But-it-seems-like-you-still-have-reasons-not-to-share-your-shady-intentions-and-witty-plans. Reasons-aside-from-not-wanting-to-risk-whatever-negative-consequences-which-may-or-may-not-exist_. 

“You’re being petty here.” 

_I’m-being-realistic. You-said-you-needed-my-help. I-can’t-see-how-do-you-expect-me-to-if-you-won’t-tell-me-what-it-is-that-is-worring-you-to-such-an-unsettling-extent._

“Well, there are various possibilities _—_ letters for example, no talking required. Or bottle post. Not the most reliable solution, but it has its charm, don’t you think? Besides, revealing my _shady intentions and witty plans_ would be somewhat of an anti-climax, won’t you agree?” 

_Julian. I’m-serious._

He sighed. “Nerez, dear, I wouldn’t need you to trust me, if I could simply talk to you. Believe me, I’m a quite convincing talker, actually, talking is my most refined skill.” 

_An-argument-based-upon-assumption_. 

“Are you really going to doubt my persuasive abilities?”, he asked, expectantly arching an eyebrow. 

Nerez didn’t answer. 

Julian shoved a second pasty into his mouth. Sweets had lost their appeal to him, as most things had done over the course of time — it had been a delight to find that his old-man-psyche didn’t affect the evolutionary benefits of a child’s physique. Well, the downside: child’s physique meant child’s tongue — distinct liking for sweetness (growth required energy) and dislike for bitterness (just the way Mother Nature had chosen to save humanity from poisoning itself into extinction, an instinct, if you like — and kids trusted their instinct more than adults did, unless they were trained to, of course). He could stuff his face with loads of sweets without feeling that nasty burn in the back of his throat from all the sugar or vomiting, but alcohol…well, there was a reason to why kids even flinched away from the smell of it. A cellar full of fancy wine — fancy wine, whose production had ceased due financial problems before he had even come of age in his previous life — and he couldn’t enjoy a single drop. 

What a shame. 

_Master-Donar-attempted-to-poison-the-Count_. 

So Nerez noticed it. He had hoped his cousin would. 

“Oh, it wasn’t an attempt. Donar _did_ poison my father, just not with the aim to kill the Count immediately”, Julian said. “Don’t get sloppy on me, dear.” 

_You-don’t-seem-concerned-at-all_. Nerez paused. _I-didn’t-suspect-you-to-oppose-your-father_. 

Julian almost dropped his pasty. 

“Oppose my…gods, _no_. What the hell do you think of me? Poisoning my own father…what for? Great-grandpa’s legacy I’m entitled to anyway? Are you kidding? If I could, I would happily renounce. Oh no, no, no, Father is going to live a happy and fulfilled life, while keep that fucking _labyrinth of duties and responsibilities_ away from me as far and long as possible. I had my fair share, thank you.”

Nerez didn’t answer immediately, he never did. He was probably running the conversation through his head, analysing it for meaning, hidden meanings, second and third meaning — Nerez was that kind of character, dissecting every syllable to get to the truth, trying to figure out exactly what it was that he couldn’t tell his dear cousin for the sake of their all safety. 

After all, Nerez’ unawareness was going to be instrumental. 

_When it comes to controlling human beings, there are countless ways to reach that goal. One of the instruments I prefer are lies. Humans live by beliefs — and as you know, beliefs can be easily manipulated. The second is dependency. Identify the need and fulfil it once, give a small taste. Then, ensure you’re the only one to satisfy it again._

Despite that perpetual nagging, Nerez was trusting him; it was an easy established trust, after a long-standing isolation his cousin couldn’t have found the strength to oppose the human need for interaction and recognition — indeed, in his previous life, Nerez must had been a simple target.

 _Respect people who trust you, treat their trust like precious porcelain. Bear that in mind, son._

_Why do you feel the need to tell me that every single time I drop in for tea?_

_I-suppose-you-are-not-going-to-tell-me-your-intensions-by-let-Master-Donar-poison-the-Count._

It was more of a statement than a question, but Julian nodded regardless.

“I don’t”, he said. “But please rest assured, the amount my father was dosed with isn’t going to have a detrimental effect.” 

_You-even-know-which-poison-Master-Donar-used._

How awfully perceptive. 

“This is as much as I can tell you, Nerez. Please, don’t make this any more difficult than it is.” 

His cousin would make a poor bait, if he ended up getting too much insight. 

Julian pointed at the pasties. “Do you want one?” 

Nerez snorted. 

“Well...I guess not. That leaves more for me.” Humming like he was content with himself and the world, he picked a particularly appealing one and bit into it. 

_Fine_ , his cousin slammed into his armrest, eventually. _Suit-yourself._

Julian signed and licked the poppy seeds off his fingers. On their own, sugar-poppy seeds had a distinctive bitter-sweet taste, reminding a bit of honey; he never truly liked honey, neither in his childhood nor in his adult years. 

Grabbing _The Path of Alchemy: An Introduction to the World of Natural Magic_ , he slid off his chair, rounded the table and flopped down on Nerez’ lap. In the first run, his cousin’s first contact with alchemy should have been a couple of years later, but he had thought that it couldn’t hurt to speed things up a little. 

“Where did you leave off?”

 _Page-two-hundred-and-seventy-three_. 

Flipping through the book, he reached for another pasty. 

_Seven_ , the chapter heading said. _An explanation of the Philosophers’ Tincture concerning the transmutation of metals by perfection of medicine under the influence of escharotic substances._

And that was why he didn’t like Kalkstein (his books, not the man himself) — without question, that man was an expert in his field, he just strongly tended to artistic extravagance and originality. Simply put: you would never know what the fuck that man was actually talking about. Granted, Kalkstein wasn’t suitable for beginners, but his results were — to Nerez’ great joy — accurately analysed and presented in clearly arranged tables and graphs. In addition, Kalkstein’s _The Path of Alchemy_ was less self-biographical than Lunin and Tyrss’s _The Arcane Mysteries of Magic and Alchemy_. 

_Would-you-be-so-kind-and-turn-the-page?_

“I haven’t finished reading yet.” 

_You’re-slow_. 

“It’s Kalkstein after all”, Julian retorted. 

_I-don’t-understand-what-you’re-implying_. 

“Ah…never mind.” He turned the page. 

A comfortable silence descended upon them, occasionally interrupted by the rustling of paper. 


End file.
